


Fiddly Bits

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse of Circuitry, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Kissing, M/M, Prosthesis, awkward everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is this confidence? You’ve heard people speak of it and you’ve tried to emulate it but is this weird, out of body experience confidence or just temporary insanity? You’re not actually sure.</p><p>But you're going to run with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiddly Bits

**Author's Note:**

> snow-whites-poison-kiss's prize for 500th follower
> 
> i've never written either of these guys so take it easy on me

Equius really has been too kind, lately.

It all started with your legs, as everything nowadays tends to do; the prosthetics are wonderful, of course, but… well. Vriska dumped water on them, and it got into some of the wiring along the joint of your hip, and now everything seems to be glitching out at the most inopportune times.

It’s very inconvenient.

It’s very inconvenient, but you’ve dealt with suddenly being stuck in one place, or suddenly taking half a step forward, or back, or to the side… you’ve dealt just fine with not having complete control of your limbs but that doesn’t mean you’re necessarily pleased with these developments. You deal with things because you have to, but that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it.

In fact, you’re quite vocal about not enjoying it, at least when there’s no one else around. And you thought you’d been alone when your legs froze up again, for the third time in as many hours, freezing you in place until they magically begin to work again… Except you weren’t. Equius is leaning in the doorway, staring impassively at you behind blocky black shades, but you’re too busy growling at your legs to really notice, until he begins to speak.

  
“Come with me,” he says, emotionless, and he seizes you under the arms and lifts you up with no trouble, even though you aren’t exactly small- in fact, you’re a head taller than him, but he just slings you over his shoulder like you weigh no more than a small barkbeast, and he carries you off, presumably to his workshop. You wouldn’t know- you’re dangling from his shoulder, vision obscured by your bangs.

“I, uh- I’m perfectly, definitely fine walking, uh, by myself,” you stutter out, frowning at the blue sign right in front of your face; you can’t deny that it’s nice of him to carry you, but it would definitely be nicer if his shoulder wasn’t digging hard into your stomach. Or, you know, of you were walking on your own.

“No you aren’t.Your legs are misfiring. Do not lie to me about the mechanical failures of your body, lowblood. It is my responsibility to make sure you are operating at optimal condition.”

See, he’s been so kind to you, but his language is just… confusing. He talks about wanting to make sure you are ‘operating at optimal condition’, and he does a damn good job of making sure, but… then he talks to you like you’re scum beneath his feet, and then you get confused.

Sometimes, you’re sure he’s actually flirting with you, in black. Other times, you’re positive he just hates you platonically, or is completely indifferent to you.

And times like this, when he sets you ever so carefully down on his worktable, his hands adjusting your legs with an infinite amount of care and consideration for your comfort, well… you think might, might just be red for you.

“What happened?” he asks, tools already laid out beside him, panels slowly being removed one by one. He’s already so very focused on his work that it seems a shame to interrupt with your voice, but he had asked you a question, and you are obliged to answer.

“Vriska,” you mumble, and he scoffs, setting down a screwdriver to pick up a pair of pliers, “She, uh… water. Dumped water in, the hip joint, right here.”

You point, and the little spots of rust are obvious; you’d tried to dry it out almost instantly after it had happened, but clearly you hadn’t done a well enough job. His hands settle at the location instantly, gently prying panels up and exposing the widespread corrosion inside. Well, no wonder your legs hadn’t been working properly. Yikes.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers; you feel the urge to reach out and smooth away the wrinkles and lines on his forehead.

“Why did you not request my assistance the instant this happened?” he says, irritated, tool table clanging loudly as he drops the pliers onto it and grabs a small pair of tweezers instead, picking carefully at the wires along your thigh, “I might have been able to salvage this. Now it’s ruined. I’ll need to replace it completely.”

Oh. Now you feel bad.

By attempting not to bother the blueblood, you seem to have accidentally made more work for him… You duck your head and kick your unoccupied leg against the leg of the table with a sigh, fingers picking idly at the hem of your shirt.

“I, uh, thought that I could handle it… on my own?” you say, grimacing a bit at his unimpressed look, “I didn’t, uh, want to bother you. You looked… busy, is all.”

He glowers at the corroded, rusty circuits lining the bare bones of your prosthetic, and says, “Next time, I would prefer you bother me.”

You nod, and let him work in silence, just watching as he ever so carefully strips the damaged circuits away and replaces them, his hands butterfly soft as they touch the sensitive internal components of your legs.

He works with them like you work with the most fragile of beasts; with broken winged birds and little hopbeasts whose hearts will beat out of their chests if you frighten them. It makes your own heart a bit warm to see that intense focus on his face, and you sigh, letting your hand drift down to pat him right between the horns.

He goes stiff under the touch, looking up at you as if he’s ready to tear your hands off with his teeth for such an invasion of personal space; it’s when you notice, and think such an expression is cute, that you realize that, uh… you have it rather bad, for him.

“Why on Alternia did you just touch me?”

You stare down at him, then at your treasonous, betraying hand, then back to him, before your brain says fuck it and takes a vacation.

“Because I, uh, like you,” you say, hearing the words coming from your mouth but not actually understanding them, not realizing they’re actually from you, for a moment, “I, uh, happen to like you, a lot.”

Is this confidence? You’ve heard people speak of it and you’ve tried to emulate it but is this weird, out of body experience confidence or just temporary insanity? You’re not actually sure.

“You like me,” he says, face twisting up into a strange expression, like he’d shoved a while lemon in his mouth and bit down, “Need I remind you that I am perfectly happy with my current moirail-”

Oh. Well, he seems to have… misunderstood, quite egregiously. Perhaps you’d better make it more clear.

You grip his chin and tilt his head up, and you bend down, and suddenly your lips are touching, the possessive grip your other hand has on the back of his neck making it far more obvious what, exactly, you’d been attempting to not-so-subtly hint at. He’s stiff and silent and unresponsive, but you’re still floating in that hazy stupidity induced confidence or whatever, so you just… keep going. You kiss him hard, and his hands grip your waist, right under where the metal begins on your hips; his grip is wary, like he expects you to snap in half. You don’t.

“I, uh, hope that made it clear,” you say, pulling away; his lips are tinted blue, kiss swollen, and it really is a good look for him. You want him to look like that always.

Maybe the spirit of Rufioh is possessing your body, because you actually reach out and tilt his head up when he looks down, brushing lank hair from his eyes. And you take his shades off, because he’s already probably going to kill you, so why not just go all out?

Your hands tremble from adrenaline; you are probably going to die, because you just kissed Equius Zahhak and he’s staring at you with wide, shocked eyes like he cannot believe your audacity. To be honest, you get where he’s coming from; you can’t believe your audacity, either.

“As, uh, you can see,” you say, voice faltering more and more as you drag on, “I, uh, am not actually interested in… your diamond quadrant. I am interested in, uh. Something. Much redder. Yes.”

He stares. You squirm.

“A, uh, a reaction might, uh, might be appropriate, I think-”

He breathes in, like a statue come to life, blue sweat beading on his forehead. His hands fall to the table, and you hear metal groan as he grips the edge, the steel bending to his grip like wet paper. You try not to think about how attractive that is.

“You’re… red. For me.”

You nod.

“Red?” he says, incredulously, like he honestly can’t wrap his head around it, and you nod again, one of your ears flicking as your face colours like melted chocolate, your own hands fiddling with a loose wire from your hip. He swats you away, as blue as you are brown, and grabs a screwdriver, turning his attention back to your legs.

“...Perhaps,” he says, almost a mumble, if someone of as noble a bearing as Equius Zahhak could mumble, “Perhaps, when I am done here, we can discuss something along the lines of a… trial period.”

“Go on a date, you mean,” you say, and he ducks his head over your thigh and fiddles with the circuitry there. It’s cute. You reach out, pet his hair, and his own ears swivel forward, even as his head stays down.

“That is, uh, acceptable,” you say, watching some of the tension from his shoulders dissipate, “In fact, I think I’d, uh, even say, agreeable. Greatly, looked forward to.”

He nods, and you grin, something like satisfaction, like real confidence blooming in your gut; you have a date with Equius fucking Zahhak, and nothing could ruin your current mood.


End file.
